Nola
by Distance
Summary: A traitorous ghost can't help but save those he set out to stop. Some bonds are stronger than death... Will take place across FFVII, AC and DoC. NOT VincentxTseng. They are just the heterosexual main characters. Told from the Turks' POV.
1. Ghost Along the Mississippi

A/N: As per usual, I don't really know what this is supposed to be. I just wish more people explored the potential underlying relationship between Vincent and the modern day Turks, in light of Advent Children. I don't know if I necessarily buy that Vincent just saved them out of the kindness of his heart, and I definitely don't buy that he was picked randomly to save them. So, I guess I'm making my own wish come true.

I don't exactly know what will come of this. I don't know if this will be a story per-say. But expect more chapters, if anyone seems remotely interested. Oh, and if anything seems AU it's not intentional – I haven't played the original game in a decade.

As per usual, story and chapter names come from music. Recommended listening, the band Down.

Told from Tseng's POV.

**NOLA: Part 1**

**Ghost Along the Mississippi**

At first I thought it was a hoax. He was a legend, even among the older generation. His natural skill, his level of training, his inhuman abilities – even down to his too human downfall. It all sounded like one of those epic poems authored by the ancients we were forced to study in high school. The world's greatest man bested by man's greatest weakness – love. A part of me always thought it was just a tall tale. Of course, parts of it had to be true. A cursory glance through ShinRa's records could quickly prove that, though I suppose not anymore.

Since Meteorfall, there isn't much left of ShinRa's Archival Department. Even before Meteor, those files seemed to have "disappeared." If there's one thing the Company hates more than old ghosts, it's old ghosts turned traitors.

Sure, he was there, hidden amongst the mundane details of deceased personnel files. I found him when I was still a rookie. I was always a skeptic, but even the most trusting of men found the mythos surrounding the late Vincent Valentine hard to swallow.

Though I suppose most of those legends died with the generation before mine. 30 years was a long time to pass on old water cooler stories. The older guys before me were still only fresh on the job when the man still walked the Planet. They fed on the legend – he helped inspire them to become Turks in the first place, after all. Me? I saw no use in myths.

I never wanted to turn my charges into a clandestine group of assassins – though I do suppose that it can't be fully avoided given the line of work we're in. My men would be grounded. We would know our job, do our job and leave the mystical allure at the door. So Rude and Reno never heard Valentine's death defying tales, because in my mind they were just that – tales.

They aren't the type of men to buy in to that sort of hype anyway. Elena on the other hand, she would've been enthralled – bordering on obsessed. Luckily for her, the whole world seemed to go to Hell too quickly for her to hear those types of rumors anyhow. Most of her learning happened on the field, out of necessity. She never heard any stories of the old days, not even the ones I actually found myself fond of telling.

But Vincent Valentine turned out to be much more than legend.

Had I met the man before his death, I wonder if I would have recognized him. I could never dig up any pictures of him from his active duty with ShinRa, but I can only imagine Hojo played more than a small role in the man's striking appearance. And being on opposite sides of the battle field didn't leave much time for the exchange of names. His tenacity on the field, though, left me wondering.

AVALANCHE was full of worthy fighters, but they were just that – fighters, warriors. That tall, pale man prancing around in a ridiculous, comically morbid get-up wasn't a warrior. He was a killer. He was an assassin. His shots were cold and calculated. Even his hand to hand combat was dangerously effective. There was no sense of martial art or military training to his combat. It was something swifter, deadlier. It was a text book example of Turk training. Knowing what I know now, I wonder if we were modeled after him.

Yes, his fighting style was suspect, but the connection didn't come until much later. Not until that girl shouted his name.

* * *

><p><em>The evacuation of Midgar was the first step forged in a tenuous alliance between oppressor and oppressed. The soldiers who refused to let go of their allegiance to an obviously crumbling empire just could not seem to find a way to work with the surviving masses of the ruined city. Both halves of the circle were equally mindless, it seemed – no side admitting it needed assistance from the other in the Planet's hour of need. They needed to be led.<em>

_That was not the intention, of course, when the battered remnants of the Turks and a rebellious offshoot of AVALANCHE both arrived on the scene. It was almost comical, the symmetry the two groups seemed to present. Yuffie Kisaragi, proud and disobedient daughter of Lord Godo of Wutai, instantly sprang into action only to be met head on by Elena, the woman who still so recently sacrificed her last name and any vestiges of her family ties to take on the proud banner of the Turks. Their battle surely would have been heated, if allowed to progress past a single gunshot and single hurl of a shuriken – both being fueled by rage and, subsequently, poorly aimed._

"_Yuffie…" The darkly clad figure let his low, grumble of a voice trail off. The ninja instantly stilled, though her eyes still gleamed with malice. _

_Tseng even found himself momentarily stunned by the sound. He only allowed himself a wonder at the bottomless depths held in the guttural sound before he roused himself to his previous task. In an instant, his hand found Elena's shoulder, staying her previously conceived attack._

_The two older men didn't seem to need words. Their eyes communicated all that was necessary. Whatever we are doesn't matter right now. There's a job to do._

"_Elena. We have a mission. Let's go."_

* * *

><p>We went our separate ways, spreading out to coordinate the evacuation effort. It wasn't until the final sector was complete, until I heard the little ninja girl cry out his name over her PHS, that it finally dawned on me.<p>

Death defying? Perhaps the legends didn't do the man justice.


	2. The Man that Follows Hell

A/N: First things first: thank you SO FREAKIN' MUCH to my reviewers. I'm totally feeling the love on this, which was unexpected. It's a nice change of pace from the usual response (or lack there of) to my stories. And now I find myself writing another chapter, when the whole reason I started this was the get my muse working again for my other story. Oh well, sucks for everyone waiting for an update on that.

I'm starting to realize that this will end up being fairly AU, but mostly in the character personality department. In this particular instance – Reno and Rude. C'mon, Advent Children! They're TURKS for crying out loud. I'm all for comic relief, but in my opinion AC (or at least the English translation of such) turned them into morons. And incapable fighters. So, yeah. I'm ignoring all that. And I've never played Before Crisis, so if the reference doesn't work, apologies.

Also, I'm going to attempt to work in more of the song that inspired this one into the actual story. I don't know how well it will work. I may end up hating it and never doing it again. But who knows?

Told from Rude's POV.

**NOLA: Part 2**

**The Man that Follows Hell**

We had eyes on us.

I had felt it weeks ago, but the fleeting notion disappeared. Then it came again, a few days past, but it was never anything I could put a finger on. By the time we had reached the Northern Continent, though, I was sure of it.

We all have our own personal strengths and weaknesses, but we're not some ragtag bunch of thugs and wanna-be gangsters like those AVALANCHE people would have you believe. Tseng picked us all for a reason outside of combat ability. He assembled this team with a purpose, as Veld before him did. He could have cut Reno and myself loose, too, had he saw fit when the whole Veld debacle fell on our heads. He didn't. And he had his reasons.

I can't speak for Reno or Elena, but I do one thing, and I do it well.

I watch.

I see the trouble Tseng's too busy to notice. Often times it falls to Reno to handle the situation, but I'm here to give them the heads up.

Someone like me is watching us. Someone who knows how to spot the hidden enemy makes for an excellently elusive foe. Transparent to the world, but not to me. I'm a watcher, too – and the disturbance doesn't go unnoticed.

I hesitate to inform Tseng because I think I can see in his eyes that he knows it, too. Unfortunately, I'm wrong and my hesitation costs us.

Reno takes the lone shot to the stomach and goes down hard. I run to his side while scanning the area, gun draw. Tseng merely raises an eyebrow and peers into the shadows cast by the outcropping of trees in the distance. Maybe he did know after all.

"The Turks have no reason to be here."

It was as if the darkness itself was speaking to us, but I was never one to be superstitious. Besides, I recognized the voice. To Tseng's credit, the gravely sound that seemed to rumble up from the ground under our very feet didn't seem to phase him.

My fingers tremble slightly over the trigger as I watch Tseng wander on a few more feet, trying to make out the man's form through the shadows he's absorbed in. "If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't presume to know our reason."

"ShinRa's dead. Turks have no reason to be anywhere."

"Haven't you heard?" The question was infused with a sickly sweet sarcasm. Reno was down and Tseng knew it – it was the fallen man's specialty that we needed now. Our foe was calm – too calm – and we needed that subtle nuance of personality to get a rise out of him. I'd never tell him, but Tseng couldn't quite pull it off like Reno. "Rufus seems to be a bit more resilient than his father."

"The man may live, but the Company's long gone."

None of us saw him approach. When he spoke, he sounded so far away. Even Tseng couldn't hide the fear tinted surprise that crept up his back along with the visage of Valentine. None of us saw him approach, but in an instant he was in our midst.

Tseng had barely drawn his weapon before a gauntlet cover hand wrenched it from his grasp. He was too close and too fast for Tseng, but I had a few feet on him and a perfect shot. Anyone else would've been dying in a pool of blood. Even someone as quick and as stubborn as Strife would've at least been nursing an awful wound. Valentine just leveled a cold gaze on me – down the sight of his own gun – a good ten feet from where he just was. Where he should've been. I hadn't even seen him move. The man was inhumanly fast.

I barely noticed Elena out of the corner of my eye turning something over in her fingers. I couldn't afford to take my eyes off the target though.

"Rude…"

With a hard shake of my shoulder, I finally conceded to her quietly voiced demand. Without hesitation, she thrust the object plainly in my line of sight. A tranquilizer dart?

Despite his actions thus far, it became apparent that Valentine had no intentions towards grievous bodily harm. He fought us enough times, though, to know that Reno was the wild card – even if he was only looking for a conversation. The man was much more attentive than he let on. Even taking us by complete surprise, he aimed to further his advantage straight from the start.

Deadly aim, inhuman speed and a shrewd tenacity of tactical strategy? I always thought his get-up was a bit over the top – well crossing the line into cheesy territory. A cartoon character's definition of dangerous – but it seemed the man was worthy of more than just a child's fear. Maybe the outfit was more fitting than I had previously thought.

I stood slowly and listened in – but I refused to lower my weapon.

Tseng was now standing a few feet from the man, staring into those intent eyes. His fear swallowed back down and hidden behind a mask of nonchalance perfected over his years of service to the Company. He didn't even need shades.

"Do you mean to stop us?"

Silence was his only answer, but it wasn't due to intimidation. We Turks were used to being greeted with silence cause by voices mute with fear, but this was something else. His eyes were cold, hard, calculating and completely unimpressed. They told us all we needed to know – that we better start praying that he _wasn't_ here to stop us.

"Well, if you're not here to fight, and your not here to talk, I'm afraid we must be going. Important matters to attend." Tseng had turned past Valentine, body language giving off the impression that he was done with this little impromptu intervention – but I made no move to follow. A man with eyes like that did nothing frivolously. He came here for a reason and I wasn't moving until I knew that reason didn't involve any of us six feet below the ground. He was AVALANCHE after all.

The sharp, metal digits of his gauntlet found their way to Tseng shoulder, but I sensed no malevolence in the action. That doesn't mean it didn't make my finger itch. "There's only trouble down there. If you're looking for it, you'll find it."

"Is that a threat?"

My breath hitched and Valentine had my full attention again. This newest incarnation of AVALANCHE didn't seem fond of underhanded methods – and they follow Strife now. The man's too headstrong to even see an underhanded opportunity when it presented itself. No, even an AVALANCHE member as seemingly dangerous as Valentine wouldn't wait to sink a knife in our backs. Confronted with the issue, he'd just make his threat known. It was the moment of truth, so to speak.

For a long moment, Valentine seemed frozen – again a man standing outside of time. I could almost hear Elena's heart slamming against her chest as her breathing increased in both speed and intensity – but that man just stared impassively beyond Tseng, as if we weren't even there.

In one swift motion, the tension was broken. I hadn't seen his hand move, but in the same instant that Valentine had turned his back on us to return to whatever darkness he had emerged from, Tseng's sidearm was cutting through the air towards him. The boss merely caught it in deft hands and watched the man go, still waiting for something.

"It isn't worth it." Valentine's voice had once again taken on the low rumble of darkness, echoing off the air around us. I'd never admit it aloud, but this dude was really starting to freak me out.

"You know Turks don't refuse assignments, regardless of risk."

There was a knowing air to Tseng's aura that gave me pause as I began to heft Reno's mass across a shoulder. What did AVALANCHE care of the duties of a Turk? I shifted my gaze from Valentine to Tseng. Tseng's job was to know more about people than they cared to share – so what did Tseng know of Valentine? I couldn't stop the gears from turning.

"You're following the orders of a ghost." Valentine, usually so hard to read, showed more in that moment than he likely had intended. Or maybe no one else noticed besides me – a watcher watching one of his own. But those eyes were suddenly distant, like he wasn't even talking to us anymore. "You're following them into Hell."

"You know better than most, Valentine – sometimes Hell is the only place left for you to go. And this time, it _is_ worth it."

He had seemed content to just ignore us for the time being, let us go on our way – though I'm not one to put much stock in how an enemy _seems_. But Tseng's words gave him rise. At this, he actually turned to face our leader – a slight eyebrow quirk the only hint at his askance. I approached, Reno in tow, ready to get this show on the road, when I noticed a hint of a smug smirk in the corners of Tseng's lips. He had hit a mark – managed to gain an emotion as petty as curiosity out of the cold, shell of a man - and he was happy about it. Or, as happy as Tseng openly allowed himself to be.

"Geostigma."

_I gave my life to this and it fooled me oh so well. The name they've given me is the man that follows Hell._ – Down, "The Man that Follows Hell"


	3. Eyes of the South

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. I'm feeling much love. Although, considerably less than the previous chapter. Perhaps I haven't quite hit my stride yet.

I only have two short AU notes this time around – does that mean I'm getting better? First, I don't know if the Turks have specific background stories that are cannon (outside of the fact that Tseng, Rude and Reno were apparently around for Before Crisis, and Elena and her older sister were thrown in there somewhere) so I'm making some up. Sorry if I'm wrong.

Second, the black suits were a cop out. My Turks wear blue.

Oh, and if Laney seems a bit loopy – she's been through a lot. Give her a break. Also, despite the games and movie, I still don't know if I have a feel for Elena. I guess this is me trying to figure it out.

Elena's POV.

**NOLA: Part 3**

**Eyes of the South**

This isn't where I pictured myself dying.

A lot of things about this life have crept into the corners of my mind. Tseng would be ashamed if he could read my thoughts. Though I have done a commendable job of not wetting myself. I guess that's one thing to be proud of.

The world is comprised of different people from all different lives. Midgar had been the great melting pot – a monument to the world's growing sense of unity. Or at least that's what the PR people did their damnedest to convince the world of. What a load of bull.

The Turks always had the allure of mystery – so much so that a decent chunk of the good citizens of Midgar were ignorant to our very existence. That was so attractive to me.

I can't keep my eyes open. This Shiva forsaken fatigue is making it hard to keep a coherent train of thought. Maybe that's why I'm thinking of these stupid, childish feelings instead of working a way out of here.

Out of here? There is no out of here. _End of the line, Laney._

Ugh. Even when he's not here that idiot Reno can't seem to keep his mouth shut. I don't want to die with that voice in my head.

Everyone had their little shroud of disinformation about them, but Reno's had always been the strangest. Rude's stoic silence was impenetrable. He was mysterious by necessity – you had to _talk_ to give out personal information, after all. Tseng was just… Tseng. Smart, handsome, quiet godsdamned Tseng. His aura didn't leave room for you to ask him about himself. Reno - the man's mouth never stopped moving, but he never said anything. He'd probably shoot me if he knew, but I think I've finally figured that part of him out. That's his mystery – he'll give you so much useless trivia amidst an endless string of obnoxious, lewd and trite commentary that you can't help but build a definition of the man in your head. And you'd be completely wrong. That's how he kept the demons at bay.

Kept? I don't suppose my inner monologue taking on the past tense bodes well for my future.

When did my eyelids get so damn heavy? How much could two thin pieces of skin weigh, anyway?

Me? I forced my mystery, but I don't think it ever tricked any of the others. Rude never spoke because of the things he'd seen. It's a common story, but not from someone so young. Yeah, he was the next oldest to Tseng, but too young to be viewed as the old war vet. I think Reno was more concerned with hiding from his childhood in the Midgar slums for his own sake – hiding it from everyone else was just an advantageous side effect. Tseng… well, I guess I don't really know what Tseng was hiding. Guess that's why he was the leader, after all – better at our jobs than we were.

Where's the sun at, anyway? Shouldn't it be daytime by now?

Forget it. Let my stupid eyes close if they want. I'm losing the energy to still give a damn.

I wish Tseng would just pass out already – though I know that's too much to ask. He'd never give these freaks the satisfaction of knowing they broke him. And he's the boss – he holds himself to a higher standard. Were any of his Turks in his shoes, he'd be proud of the fact that we simply didn't talk. But not Tseng. It wasn't good enough to simply refuse to concede to their will – he won't give them the satisfaction of his closed eyes, his bowed head. He wants to look in their eyes when they realize they won't win.

And it's not that I want them to get him to fold, either. No. I just wish he couldn't see me slip into nothingness. He must be so ashamed.

I don't want to die here. It's too damn cold. I spent so long trying to escape the sun and warm shores. Now, I don't think I could handle dying without feeling that heat again.

My big, dark secret – the darkness in every Turk's life that drives them to apply for the most damnable job on the Planet? My shameful secret is that I don't have one.

From the outside, they had seemed so dark and romantic. Then I got to know them – as much as anyone can ever know a Turk – and I knew I'd have to carry my secret with me to the grave. I knew our personalities would always clash, but I thought maybe our shared experiences would make me one of them. We did watch the world almost die together, after all. If they knew the truth – even now, after everything – I know I'd forever be outside. I can't handle that.

I guess bleeding out, strapped to a tree and freezing to death is a good time for a confession, huh?

What drove me to this life of legalized crime? Boredom.

I never cut my teeth on the harsh streets of Midgar. I was never a SOLDIER. I was never a kidnapper or an assassin. I was a stuck up kid with old, rich, retired parents – jealous of her older sister training to be an infamous Turk. They were content to simply waste the rest of their lives away on the shores of Costa del Sol. I couldn't handle it.

I would've given anything for a life of intrigue, and it seems someone's finally come to collect that payment.

Was it worth it?

In the beginning, I didn't know. I jumped at the chance and paid for my haste. First official day on the job came with a swift kick in the rear courtesy of AVALANCHE. Limping back to my posh apartment on the plate looming over Sector 2, my doubts were running pretty high. Over the years though, I'd like to think I hit my stride. Maybe I even helped out a little bit along the way, finally graduating out of the dead weight category. Who knows? But somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling their judgmental eyes constantly at my back – even Reno. Maybe they stopped caring, maybe I did – but I didn't really feel like I had to prove myself anymore.

So, yes. In the long run, it was worth it. I don't regret what I've done. I just don't want to die in the damn cold.

I wonder if my parents are still alive. I really am the worst Turk ever if I can't even outlive two geriatrics.

God, if you're out there, I know you're not really supposed to answer Turk prayers, but please? Just keep me limping on long enough to see the ocean again. Let me feel the humidity on my skin. Let me get sun shine on my face just one last time. Then send me wherever you plan on sending me. Thanks.

Ha.

Yeah right. I must really be losing it now.

* * *

><p>Being dead hurt a lot more than I thought it would.<p>

I had heard stories of souls too corrupt to be accepted by the Lifestream – cast out to suffer in eternal darkness away from the Planet. I didn't pay too much attention to the details though – surely pretty girls from the beach were exempt. Right?

My throbbing head and the sudden notion that something had impaled my side begged to differ.

And of course my eyes wouldn't work. Those bastards were the first things to betray me before the end, after all. Even if I could've opened them, there's that whole "eternal darkness" thing. There wasn't much to see around here, I guessed. Did dead people even have eyes?

But my chest was moving. Rhythmically. Unconsciously. Almost like I was breathing.

Dead people certainly didn't breathe, did they?

"Elena…"

His voice was so rough, so raspy, so un-Tseng. My heart didn't know whether to break at the voice that sounded so helpless and couldn't possibly be coming from my leader or to jump for joy at the sign that he still lived. Thank Shiva he still lived. I already mourned his death once – I'd break if I had to do it again.

And then it dawned on me. He was still alive. He was talking to me. And I could hear him. Maybe I'd get to live long enough to die somewhere warm after all.

I guess every now and then, Turks were allowed to pray.

I had bled way too much, obviously. I was still delirious and near death if my thoughts were any indication. Shame, joy, relief, pain, even a hint of pleasure – something I don't care to elaborate on – were all muddled in my poor addlepated brain into a swirling mass of confusing emotion.

He was helping me up. _He _was helping _me_ up. I just got beat on for a bit and then passed out. What they did to Tseng – or at least what I was still coherent enough to acknowledge – was pushing the definition of torture to its limits. There wasn't a word to appropriately describe what he had supernaturally lived through. Some of those things… just watching them…. I'd be haunted forever by it. And he was on his feet helping me get to mine.

Had he saved me? Was that even possible? There's no other explanation. In that moment, I think I began to believe in superheroes.

And I wouldn't mind the sight of Tseng in spandex.

The wince of pain on his face at the effort, though, quickly drained the levity from my thoughts.

"What happened?" Oh Shiva! Was that my voice? I couldn't even recognize the barely intelligible rasp I managed to cough out. I even _sounded_ worse for wear than Tseng did. I may have hit a new low point in life at that moment.

"Doesn't matter. We're still breathing." That low, soothing tone began to reclaim the territory of his voice from the strained, hoarse words he had breathed moments before. Looking back, maybe I should've felt even worse about how quickly he seemed to be recovering compared to me, but at the moment, that low – if inflectionless – voice granted me a deep breath of hope. Something I desperately needed.

With the reassurance that this wasn't all some contrived torture at the hands of whoever ruled the Darkness – that we were both, in fact, still breathing – my eyelids found their strength again.

At my lids' first crack, the world of darkness ran to the complete opposite end of the spectrum. The light was blinding and I was sure he was wrong. We were dead because nothing in the naturally occurring world could possible be that bright. With eyes clamped shut against the searing intrusion, I sat myself the rest of the way up, head swimming.

In a moment, my dizzy world righted itself and my eyes seemed to slide open – much more cautiously this time – of their own will, adjusting to the overpowering light. It was a testament to just how close to the end I'd been. When I found the courage the let my eyes roam my surroundings, I realized just how dimly lit the room actually was without pupils in some extreme, death-dilation. A meager candle sat lit atop an equally unremarkable upturned crate-turned-table.

I had to fight the urge to ask Tseng where we were, but the sudden need to seem as cool and Blue Suited as possible became the focal point of all my efforts. It was a soul-deep sense of pride that I couldn't ignore even if I wanted (which I didn't). I lived through it. I knew Tseng would – Reno and Rude, too, if they were in our shoes. Me? I guess I still doubted myself. Not anymore. Good Lord, the Suit was mine. Battered, broken and delirious, but if I was still breathing, I was still a Turk, damnit!

With my newly rediscovered Turk eyes, I began my methodical, pragmatic examination of the room. The slight, wry smirk I caught on Tseng's face told me he already made his rounds. No matter. He wasn't the only professional here, after all. Maybe he missed something.

First things first, entryways and exits. The most vital information in an unknown situation.

"The door's locked!" My alarmed eyes fell on Tseng's perfectly calm mask. Or at least I assumed it was a mask. Who could genuinely be that calm – after the whole being kidnapped and tortured thing – upon discovery that they were trapped in an unfamiliar location? Turk façade be damned – this was a text-book "time to freak out" moment.

"It's an old Turk trick."

Alarm gave way to confusion and in an instant, confusing gave way to anger. "Locked doors? Doesn't seem very useful, or courteous."

"I happened to me when I was a first year. I was furious with Veld. He just told me I was on the mend when he left me. He knew I'd live through it."

I was struck by the almost lyrical quality his voice took on then – like he was narrating a tale, not imparting information. Tseng wasn't one to fawn over stories of long past Turk lore. If he ever bothered to delve into his days before his promotion to Department Head, it was to teach a lesson, not to tell a story. Apparently even Tseng could be rattled into reminiscence by the idea of impending death. Not that I minded. In fact, the only thing that put me off was the ensuing silence – he didn't seem inclined to continue. I couldn't let that happen. The Tseng that would sit with me and tell me stories of the glory days was the Tseng I used to fantasize about. Of course, that Tseng wasn't recovering from a barely escaped death, but details _schmetails._

I slipped on my best "I'm petulant and I demand answers" voice before prompting him further. "Still. Whatever happened to no man left behind?"

In an instant, his eyes were on me – pinning me under the weight of decades of experience. "We're not the army, Elena. Our purpose is to get the job done. That doesn't always mean everyone makes it back."

Ah, there he was again. Stern without being angry. Reprimanding without being condescending. Boss-Tseng. Better than Fantasy-Tseng by default, being that he was real and all.

"So, what? He just left it at that? If you figure it out, you attain Turk Nirvana?" That time, my sarcasm was genuine. No thinly veiled attempt at getting the story to continue. The whole mysterious for the sake of being mysterious thing got on my nerves (and yes, I do acknowledge the hypocrisy inherent in that considering the fact that mystery is what made me love the Turks).

"When I wasn't quite so angry anymore, he explained it. If you have to leave someone behind, but they look like they're going to make it, lock them up." His eyes began to drift away from me again. I suddenly found him in an intense staring contest with the flickering candle. In that moment he looked exactly like the lore loving fool he did his damnedest to never be. "If they're not healed enough to figure a way out, they're not healed enough to be back in the field anyway. If they get out, though, assume they're ready for action."

That did certainly seem to fit the bill. Pulled out of action – out of harm's way. Our wounds tended to – somewhat superficially if my aching body was any indication. Quick and to the point – just enough to make sure we'd live. I could imagine the rustic, handmade cabinets lining the far wall housed most everything we needed to get ourselves back to a hundred percent – or at least as close to it as possible.

"So some Turk guardian angel saved us?"

This was getting a bit surreal.

"Could just be a coincidence."

Or a miracle. Coincidences didn't bring you back from the dead. They also tended not to answer prayers. But maybe Turk prayers were different.

_God Lord, the South is blind, but she will never let me go back to being sane. Please let me die there. Cold world leave me there… _– Down, "Eyes of the South"


	4. Underneath Everything

A/N: So this has been by leaps and bounds the most difficult chapter for me to write. In fact, I had 90% of the next chapter done before I had a hundred words of this. And I've changed the title 5 times already (and will probably change it again before I actually upload this). Don't get me wrong – I love Reno to death. He's at the top of my list, only trumped by Vincent. BUT – this was really hard for me to not just end up with a more sarcastic version of Rude's chapter. And it was really hard for me to find a song to fit this, so apologies if it feels forced – but I sort of set that as my goal when I started and I'm stubborn.

Honestly, I think this chapter is garbage. But I've beat my head against the wall long enough and I'm at the point now where I don't think it's every going to make me happy, so it's time to keep it moving. It is what it is. Sorry. The next chapter, I love, so please don't abandon me over this. Pretty please?

Anyway, sorry for the wait. On with the show.

Reno's POV

**NOLA: Part 4**

**Underneath Everything**

I guess I'm a strange sort of optimist. Not in the traditional sense. I'm not naïve or ignorant to the ugly shit this world has to offer. Far from it. I was raised on it. When it comes to Turk matters, though, I have a well reasoned sense of optimism. When you work with the most highly trained operatives walking the Planet, you tend to take for granted that everyone's going to do their jobs and come walking instead of in a body bag. Hell, Tseng took Sephiroth's sword in stride when that Centra whelp and that almighty President ShinRa – or rather, Former President, due to said sword – crumbled and submitted to Death's eager embrace.

So when Tseng and Elena got snatched up by those silver-haired freaks, I expected them to come around again in no time. That's not to say I didn't hold my doubts. Like I said, I'm not naïve - and those lunatics showing up for the fight pretty much unscathed didn't exactly leave me waiting with bated breath.

But, in Tseng's usual style, the two arrived fashionably late to the showdown – bandaged to hell, but ready for a fight. Laney pointed off into the distance to accompany Tseng's one word reply to my silent question – "Valentine."

I followed the direction of her chipped nail and, well, color me shocked.

He was a blur of motion. All of those AVALANCHE tools were good in a fight, but this was just ridiculous. If it wasn't for that silly red cape the man seemed to love prancing around in marking his movements, you'd think he'd teleported from place to place. It was inhuman – and come to think of it, that could very well be an accurate description. I mean, they had a talking dog in the crew – a gun slinging vampire paled in comparison.

_Promised land divide – that's where the world lies…_

It's hard to ignore the fact that the world is pretty screwed when you watched him. Our greatest hope is an ex-assassin turned immortal genetic experiment. Yeah. Ex-Turk. Not ex-SOLDIER. Strife pulls his weight, sure, but he's the pretty poster boy. All he seems to bring to the table is a big sword and a lot of pent up aggression that Sephiroth managed to unlock. A blind man could see the kid is obviously not pulling the strings of strategy all on his lonesome.

I hate to tell you, kid, but you're not out of the woods yet. Sure, I don't know everything our illustrious former President had his greedy little paws in, but I'm not a Turk for nothing. We see a lot of things, and maybe I've poked my head around enough places I would've gotten fired for – enough to know there's a lot of ugly ghosts out there waiting for their shot at the limelight. Ghosts that are a little too ugly for your passion for your dead girlfriend and amicable feelings towards the world to pull you through.

Men like us – like Valentine – that have already given up on this pathetic little life are what the Planet's gonna need to weather these storms. Men that have already lost their stake on the Promised Land. Men that don't care about earning any more war stories and the last person they want to see on the other side once they finally kick it is the Lord.

Men that don't need a reason.

Not that we're above it. If anything, we're underneath – underneath _everything_. Underneath the notice of the masses. Far too low for God to still give a rip about what we have to do to get the job done. Just ghosts of a time you all have already forgotten.

And don't think that just because the freak's good on the field that it means I like him. Cheap shot taking bastard.

Yeah, I'm still bitter about the Northern Continent. I owe him one for that. But I suppose considering a war is being fought on all sides, now's not the most prudent time to bring it up. And burying two Turks probably would've given me a gray hair or two, so if he's somehow responsible for Tseng and Elena making it back in one piece, I guess I can let it slide. Just this once.

After the tranquilizer had warn off (which, by the way, was just an insult - I'm sure I warrant a bullet), I came to with Elena flying the chopper – a scary thought. And if that wasn't enough to give me an ulcer, the heated argument taking place between Rude and Tseng was. And by heated, I mean a lot of one word questions and silent staring from Rude and perfectly coif, well rehearsed responses from Tseng. But for those two I'm-So-Scary-Because-Of-How-Quiet-And-Professional-I-Am jackasses? Might as well have been a fist fight. Laney, thankfully, was blissfully ignorant to the whole ordeal – she was a bad enough pilot without eavesdropping on the latest news.

The cat was out of the bag – Valentine's a Turk.

Big surprise? I personally didn't think so. Rude and Tseng may have considered themselves above water cooler gossip, but I knew the legends. Not the nice, pretty stories Laney grew up idolizing. My legends were about the boogey men in blue suits – old wives tales designed to keep us bastard children of the slums from getting _too_ far out of line. Valentine (though I didn't have a name to place with the stories until the guy shacked up with Strife) was King Boogey when I was a kid.

When Tseng caught me rooting around ShinRa's encrypted personnel files – though, based on his reaction to the whole situation, I'm sure he didn't know what I was looking for at the time – he told me that curiosity killed the cat and sidelined me with office duty for a week. When Laney heard about it, she told me I was too nosy for my own damn good. Nosy? Hardly. Professionally interested – which is what we were paid for anyway, wasn't it? Undue cause for punishment. I'd have submitted a formal complaint, except the person I would've been complaining about would've been the one to receive it. Circumvent the paper work and just deal with it.

Sorry, Tseng, but I'm no cat. I'm just a stray dog that was raised to believe the street would be my death. My death at _his_ hands.

_To prove a point, to laugh it off, to cross you off my path…_

I was pissed when I first put the pieces together. The bastard was a traitor! But I took my small consolation – the one person worth a lick in Strife's little rag-tag band of criminals was one of us. A point of pride, if I wasn't royally pissed about it.

Honestly, I had some trouble buying the story the facts of the matter seemed to present. This guy died in the line of duty before I was born. And based on the legends, the dude had a lot to live up to. Not that expected him to. No one could. That's why they're called legends. But it's like growing up and finding out one day, out of the blue, that there actually were monsters under your bed as a kid – monsters with names and government issued identification. You know it's all bullshit, but you can't keep yourself from sleeping with the light on and upturning your mattress every time you hear a floorboard creek for the next week. This was beyond professional interest – this was about retaining my sanity.

I had watched him more than he realized – although, if he was really the legend he was supposed to be, he probably knew. When I was sidelined with an injury, Tseng bumped me down to recon duty. Know your enemy and all that. I used to love to rub that in Laney's face – she got promoted to replace me during my injury, but I was still in the field more often and doing more worthwhile work. She was so pitiful when she started, but that's off topic.

Yeah, Tseng wanted me on Strife and Wallace – an ex-SOLDIER and a known terrorist teaming up is red flag city. It only took a few peaks from the bushes, though, to realize they weren't necessarily the biggest concern.

He was always deadly – efficient on the battlefield. A perfect soldier, but a lacking warrior. He didn't have that warrior's pizzazz. No passion. He got the job done, for sure, but left a lot of room for improvement in the "victory pose" department. I thought he was dull, or maybe it took all his concentration to fire off those perfect shots. I was slightly under whelmed. He was boring. Deadly and well worth keeping tabs on, but boring.

Watching him fly around like a freak, helping that useless tool Strife take down that massive Bahamut, though, I'm starting to think he was only operating at half-speed when they were trekking down Sephy. A scary thought.

Unfortunately, Sephiroth's Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb didn't see fit to let me keep watching the crimson blur. Works for me. I'm a much better at fighting than I am at the psychoanalysis of dead legends.

Besides, before I was a Turk I was a slum rat. And, well, impressing the Boogey Man is on my bucket list.

_Deities my spirit rise, like days the world forgets… _- Down, "Underneath Everything"


	5. Lifer

A/N: Thank you to everyone who continued to read this after the train wreck that was Chapter 4. If you don't get the minor reference to Nanaki, don't fret. It's not all that important.

Also, I forgot to mention in the last chapter – if you haven't already, check out "Rehab." Chronologically, it falls between chapters 3 and 4 for Nola, but I didn't think it should be included as part of this.

Vincent's POV

**NOLA: Part 5**

**Lifer**

I don't know why I am here.

The few curious glances directed my way speak volumes. They don't know why I'm here, either. But even I couldn't superimpose displeasure on their faces if I tried. They don't know, but they don't mind either, it seems.

Honestly, I could probably attribute it to pragmatism. I don't have a home to return to in the traditional sense. I've spent most of my recent days traveling – reacquainting myself with the world that seemed to have changed so drastically during my slumber. I thought I had found a small piece of life in the Forgotten City, but the Remnants have left a bitter taste in my mouth for the place – at least for the time being. And my only obligation is to Nanaki – and it is a loose one at that. Though, I couldn't rightfully just stay here…

Perhaps couldn't isn't the right word. Wouldn't.

I acknowledge that my solitude is self imposed. Not that I ever felt I belonged with these people, but at the same time I know they would accept me. Not for my merit, not for deserving, but for these foolish fighters' inability to refuse anyone. Even the Turks – the closest thing AVALANCHE still has to sworn enemies – the group of individuals who had taken so much from them, on many levels – are seemingly welcome at the impromptu gathering.

A celebration of a supposed victory. The death of the Remnants. The second – and hopefully final – defeat of Sephiroth. All of which could be linked back to my inability to act as a man is meant to – but that is a train of thought for another time.

What is there to celebrate, truly? As the adage goes, we have merely treated the symptom in lieu of the disease. We are no closer to a cure.

Though I suppose if one were motivated by the hope for the future as opposed to regret for the past, a celebration should be in order.

I really don't know why I am here.

I feel him approach more than I hear him. Silent feet, even away from the job. Veld must have liked this one, though I couldn't be sure he had lived long enough to meet Tseng.

We sit in silence for a long moment – he sipping his beer, myself more watching than drinking the amber liquid I hold loosely in my good hand. I imagine he is attempting to make it seem companionable, but I don't think even he buys into his rouse. We are not old friends. We aren't even allies, but I know him perhaps more than he would be comfortable with. Or rather, I know how he operates. I know his training. In this moment, neither the projected nonchalance nor the seeming levity of the occasion changes the dynamics of the situation. He is a predator and I am his prey.

"Sometimes I wonder why I still do this."

The first step of his trap set. Appeal to my sensibilities – or at least what he presumes my sensibilities to be. Simple. Perhaps not as simple as blackmail, or even strong-arming, but statistically, according to the "Research" part of the Department of Administrative Research and Development (which, in truth, is neither as innocuous nor misleading of a name as some might claim), more effective. Too bad I had been part of that particular research assignment.

"You were right, you know? We are just following the directives of a ghost – a ghost whose visage grows fainter every moment."

Emotional bribery. A more nuanced tactic, but also statistically proven effective. Stroke a man's ego before you pad his wallet. A man had to, on some level, be already interested in a proposition before he could be bought out, or at the very least not be fully opposed. You can't buy that which is not for sale. It is against human nature, though, to shy away from that which causes oneself pride.

"You cling to what you have to, though. A tattered, old rope isn't much – but it's enough to keep you out of the well for now."

Despite the lack of an outward reaction, there is a sort resonance in me at Tseng's words. This move is truly skillful, and courageous to boot. Use information on your target to level the playing field. Exploit his or her fears, but not for the sake of intimidation. Convince your prey that you are just another wounded animal, lost in the woods. You are the same. A shot in the dark in this instance, as Tseng could not possibly begin to fathom the depths and elusiveness of my fears, but the barb found its mark.

We aren't the same, though. Not quite a reflection, either. I can't see enough of myself in this man for that - but perhaps a harmony. Two strings buzzing at the same frequency, albeit unwittingly.

The well of madness. If a Turk didn't come from it, eventually he would find it. Some easier than others, some more reluctant, but eventually all Turks drank from that well. It was the price to be paid for the lives we lead – retribution for the lives we ruin.

But it will take more than a luckily landed blind blow to force me to succumb to his will.

He knows he has gained some ground, but he does not strike. He paces himself, like a true hunter. Allow the wounded to bleed. Allow them to slow; perhaps they will even finish the job for you – killing themselves amidst their struggle. I am no scared deer, though, and I am perfectly content to wait.

A well timed outburst – Yuffie, of course – from across the room is the opportunity for which he has been waiting. Turn in your barstool, Tseng. Watch the young girl alternate between cries of joy and gags of disgust as Cid feeds her drink she is not legally permitted to partake in. Enjoy the show for a moment. Allow me to breath, to steady my legs and regain my confidence. A wounded animal is much safer lying on the ground, soaking in their own blood than it is back on its feet, reveling in the false security of the illusion that it is getting away.

When he glances at me over his shoulder, he makes a show of letting the smile at the young ninja's antics slowly fall from his face. He wants me to know he has decided to "get down to business," as the saying goes.

"There are things that need tending. People that need eyes on them." His eyes turn back to the group crowding the main room of Tifa's modest bar as his voice trails off. "Perhaps this is our atonement. We spent our lives covertly building the ShinRa Empire – the President's watchdogs. Now we stand guard against the very thing we have built."

There is still the lie in his voice, but it is joined by something new. A small hint of honesty. I cannot deny that the change sparks my interest.

Now, it is my turn to bait him.

"I've been informed that it is foolish to seek atonement for past sins."

"There's a truth in that. A bit morbid, perhaps, but true still." He spends a moment in what appears to be genuine contemplation. He isn't prepared for much verbal challenge from me, as his research surely would have revealed – but he isn't content to merely ignore the question and continue headstrong in his previously determined plan.

The act shows a hint of his character. Perhaps he doesn't not follow orders quite as blindly as his predecessors.

"If not atonement, than maybe it's punishment. Or maybe the wheel just keeps turning and we've finally found ourselves on the downside of things."

I bite my tongue from telling him that the downside for ShinRa is the upside for the rest of the world. He knows, more so than he let's on. You are not the only predator here, Tseng.

If Veld had known you, he surely would have reprimanded you for your eyes. You give too much away. You are not a man coming to some great revelation of the mistakes of his past. You are not trying to find a way to cope with the new order of the Planet. You are a slave sudden free from his bondage, hiding his joy for an ingrained fear of his master's whip.

He continues on conversationally, but I struggle to find the point. He's reciting and it's becoming painfully obvious. I am almost affronted to think that he believes himself able to deceive me.

"I won't pretend to know what you are, Valentine. Thirty years is a long time -"

He let's the moment hang and neither of us miss the significance hidden in that simple statement.

"But there are fields that need tilling. And I know a man with a good deal on an apartment in Kalm."

And there it is. His kill shot. He knows and he wants it to be painfully obvious that he knows. Bastard. Though, I must admire his ability to hold back such a weapon until this late in the conversation.

"I imagine a lot of things have changed since your time. Maybe we don't operate the way we used to before my time. There's no way I can ever know that." He waits for a moment, perhaps expecting a verbal response. His game has been revealed and his eyes show his is disappointed in my lack of reaction to it. He continues to underestimate me and I fear that at this junction he has finally realized his error. Instead of continuing in false nonchalance, he drops the guise of paying attention to the party carrying on, our small conversation beneath its notice, and turns to pin me with eyes full of severity. If he is ready to be transparent, I am grateful.

"Some things don't change. Turks don't retire, Valentine. Maybe they defect, maybe they take a nice long leave of absence, but they don't retire. Our pension plan is a nicely trimmed pine box."

I consider it a courtesy that he seems content to skirt a direct confrontation of the issue. He knows my past, or at least that small part of it, and he's exploiting that advantage – but he isn't gloating. The knowledge may be out, but he won't put language to it. He's leaving me that small modicum of dignity. Unfortunately, I won't honor his victory.

"And why would I concern myself with Turk matters?"

There is a certain sense of smugness to his knowing smile. I recognize it well. A lifetime ago, I was known for the same expression.

He shrugs, as if prepared to drop the issue – but that smirk refuses to leave his face. He spends a moment too long contemplating his beer after taking another modest sip – making a show of turning the bottle, reading the label. A slight of hand, one perhaps a lesser man might miss. Almost magically – or at least that is his intended illusion – a PHS appears next to my elbow.

Now he's just trying to show off.

"Like I said, there's an apartment in Kalm. And you strike me as a man bright enough to figure out how that thing works."

A trap delicately, painstakingly set, yet I can't in clean conscience claim to know if I would fully avoid it.

"_I'm staring right back at myself…" _– Down, "Lifer"

A/N: Aaaaaaand I'm done. I think this may be my first ever complete multi-chapter fic on here. Go me.


End file.
